John held onto him like the only reason he was still standing was Sherlock. Head nestled into his shoulder, he tried to get that smell, the one that he associated with Sherlock alone, but all he got was the smell of wet. Sherlock clung just as tightly, the two of them locked in an embrace, ignoring the biting chill of the wind against their wet skin, despite the rain that fell in an unending sheet around them, regardless of the darkness threatening to extinguish everything in it's path they held on. "Come home" John whispered, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "I am home John" Sherlock replied, squeezing his hand oh so tightly because he was home, John was cradled into his body in the hollow that had been designed purely with him in mind because how else would he fit so perfectly and he was home. If anything John clutched him tighter before breaking away, keeping their hands intertwined as he slotted himself at Sherlock's side and began to walk, shoes squelching as he went.

Sherlock kept pace, watching their reflections as they rippled underfoot in puddles. It was a startlingly apt metaphor. Everything around him was out of control and messy, but the one constant was John, always at his side, there to lead him into the light. They didn't talk, there were no words left that could pass between them, not now, not in this place. It was reverent silence, and Sherlock used it to study John, the man he'd left behind. He seemed lighter to feel against him, possibly more muscular though which in itself was fascinating as muscle weighs substantially more than fat. Clearly John had not been eating and working hard. Sherlock knew that he was in a similar state, his wiry frame was now gaunt, almost skeletal in it's angles and shadows. Sherlock watched his footsteps, the ghost of his limp had returned, and Sherlock hated that he had caused it, hadn't even had the decency to leave that one gift behind. He swore to himself that he would fix it again, would fix them both again. His face was worrying. When all other emotions had run their course, right before John had hugged him, all that was left was an inherent tiredness, a weariness of spirit that was plain to see in the turn of his mouth and eyes, the new wrinkles that had carved themselves into his skin, the scattering of grey hairs. John was exhausted with the world.

There was something that struck him as odd, out of place somehow but he could not put his finger on it. Something about the situation... And there it was, slipped into John's trousers as it used to be when they were on a case. Why bring a gun unless he had planned something a lot darker than merely commemorating the anniversary. The thing was clean, so eerily clean that even the Anderson's of the world could attest to it's nightly cleaning. Every night John had taken out his gun, and on the last night he would ever do that he had found the one reason not to. Sherlock saw, but said nothing. It was enough to simply squeeze his hand tighter, pull his body closer, as close as they could possibly be while still trudging through the rain. It lashed at their faces, hard enough to cause welts but Sherlock was relishing it, he was feeling something again, something more than guilt and hurt and loneliness. He had felt pain while he had been gone, but none of it had been like this, a pain so cleansing that he could nearly feel it exposing his soul. They rounded the corner onto Baker street and Sherlock wanted to run to the apartment and just be there again. His muscles would not obey him, not well enough to move any faster anyway. They were locked almost, and he was starting to feel warm again. Hypothermia. John had not really looked at him until now, but concern was splattered across his features like a Pollock piece. With fumbling hands John turned the key to 221 and maneuvered Sherlock upstairs.

Sherlock took a minute to stare at the place, the living room, the kitchen, everything left almost exactly as he remembered it. John had not packed away his things. He noticed after a fashion that John was leading him to the bathroom. Once inside (and there too was his shower gel, unused, but open capped as if John had sniffed at it) John closed the door behind them with a click and for once he didn't comment on the fact that they were both dripping on the floorboards because he didn't care, not when Sherlock needed him. Always so loyal, Mycroft had chided, but John's loyalty was his crowning glory, one part of what made him so fantastic. Sherlock quivered on the spot and John reached into the shower and turned it on, warm steam filling the room. It always surprised Sherlock how gentle John's hands were, and he was still surprised when they fluttered lightly against his shoulder, taking off his jacket. Sherlock leaned unconsciously into the touch and made no move to undress himself. He'd rather John's hands on him than his own. After catching his eye for a brief moment John started undoing his buttons slowly, so very slowly, staring at each tiny expanse of pale skin that became exposed.

When the shirt hung open he pushed Sherlock down until he sat on the toilet seat and then John took of his shoes and socks. Sherlock shrugged the shirt off and before he even spared a thought to the anger or guilt and everything else John would be feeling he began to lift the hem of John's jumper. There was a moment of pure fear when their eyes met and Sherlock realised that he had been on autopilot, he was going to stop when John raised his arms. Relief flooded his system and he slipped the soggy wool over John's head, standing his hair on end but neither man cared about that, not now. Sherlock unbuttoned John's shirt too, pushing the fabric off of him and adding it to the growing pile of dripping clothing that surrounded them. The water was warming up to the perfect temperature and John slipped out of his shoes and socks, leaning against Sherlock for support. John reached out and pulled Sherlock to him,loosening the belt that held up his trousers and sliding them down, holding Sherlock's arms as he stepped out of them.

Their eyes had not wandered from the other's face since John had raised his arms. It was all still there, so strong, built up inside of them, a spot would always remain for the other's heart. It was terrifying, to feel the strength of this one feeling that they shared, to watch as it played out in the other's face, to know that this was real and always would be because they had been apart for so long, lost for so long, yet here they were, together again, wishing they never had to be apart. Sherlock was fighting the urge to faint and John, his John, held him close and helped him out of the last of his clothes and into the warmth of the shower. Sherlock did not let go of John's arm, forcing him to undress one handed but Sherlock was not going to let him go, not again. John stepped in behind him and pulled the door closed, pushing Sherlock under the warm spray.

Warm water cascaded down their bodies, waking their muscles, bringing colour back to their world. The water dripped down their faces like a veil of tears, clinging to their eyelashes, and Sherlock shivered still, staring into the eyes of the man he'd almost lost. Lighter than a whisper John's hand cupped his face and his thumb wiped away the droplets of water that his eyelashes had collected, smiling softly at him. "I didn't get a chance to tell you before so, Sherlock Holmes I love you, more than anything else in the world. I love you." John's hand wrapped around his neck and Sherlock leaned down of his own volition, meeting John's lips halfway. He knew, Moriarty had seen to that. But how his heart beat raced when John said it, and how his stomach flipped, that was all because of John and his trusting gaze, that sad little smile, the feel of his hand on his face and neck, the sound of his voice. And he knew. "I love you John Watson, more than I ever believed possible. You are more than I could ever have imagined." Sherlock whispered into his mouth before kissing him again, holding his back with two hands, closing the distance between them because there shouldn't be any. Sherlock realised with a start that this was the first time in his life that anyone had told him they loved him, and that he had said it back, meant it back.

He pressed John flush against him, rubbing his hands across the planes of his chest, his hips, his thighs. John's breathing stuttured as he ran his hand slowly through Sherlock's curls, as if trying to trigger the muscle memory of his scalp, and succeeding because Sherlock could see this same action occurring in his head, the first time at the pool, telling him just how much John wanted him too, their first night together and John soothing his nerves with the gentle movement, At Baskerville when he'd thought he'd lost his mind and John had held him, whispering that he would figure it out, and finally when he'd been lying on the table in the morgue and John had said goodbye for the last time. He knew now that he had been telling him how much he loved him and the guilt was overwhelming, it flooded through him and burst, sending him into shuddering sobs. "I am so s-s-sorry John. I am so sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry" he bawled, body convulsing with the heaving sobs. John tilted his chin up so they were looking at each other again, answer he shook his head. "I know love, I know. It's ok. Come on now, you're home." He turned off the water and stepped out into the cold, grabbing a huge towel and wrapping it carefully around Sherlock, tucking him in, protecting him even after all he'd done. He tied one around his waist and took Sherlock's hand in his own, leading him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

Sherlock was still wracked with sobs, it seemed his body was finally letting loose all that he'd held back for three years of being completely alone. He wept for the pain he had forced John to bear, he wept for the lives he'd taken even though they deserved it, he wept for his inability to protect those he loved, he wept for all the nights he'd spent alone and wondering if John was still his, he wept for the way he would never be good enough to deserve John, he wept for the fact that he could never express just how sorry he was for everything that had happened, especially for getting so wrapped up in the game that he left his heart unprotected. John held him as he did this, rocking slowly back and forth with Sherlock cradled against him, running consoling hands through his hair, allowing Sherlock to apologise with every breath, repeating over and over that it was ok, that it was all ok because he was here now, and maybe it was. Maybe it was ok to forgive him for everything that had happened because he had done it for John, to keep him safe. It had been the worst years of both of their lives and there was anger and a lot of pain left from it but they had both suffered enough for ten lifetimes now. It was time to live again. Either way, whether all could be forgiven or not , they would find out together, because John would not let Sherlock fall again, not without him right there next to him, following forever. He believed in Sherlock Holmes.

A/N I was going to make this smut, I was, but then it all descended into a sobbing mess and I don't know why but I prefer it this way. I think that's a good place to end it, but if you disagree do let me know. -S